


Comforts of Love

by MissDavis



Series: Breakable Not Broken [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coronavirus angst, Dirty Talk, Dominant John, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Quarantine, This starts out with a lot of talking and thinking but I swear it gets smutty by the end, anxious sherlock, part of a series but can be read on its own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to distract me by offering me an orgasm, like you did during the Moriarty case?""I wasn't—I didn't mean right now. Just that we'd have plenty of time for that in the next two weeks. Unless.... Do you want me to distract you with an orgasm right now?"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Breakable Not Broken [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/300966
Comments: 26
Kudos: 137
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	Comforts of Love

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is set in my pre-existing [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/560552) universe, but you don't need to have read that in order to read this. All you need to know is that John is paralyzed from the waist down (but they still get up to plenty of smutty antics). 
> 
> No betas or Britpicks for this, but feel free to let me know if you see any typos. Hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock and Stone were both waiting for him when the lift into the flat opened, which didn't surprise John at all. His first instinct was to warn them away, though that was rather pointless, given that dogs couldn't catch COVID-19 and if he was carrying the virus, then he'd doubtless already exposed Sherlock. But now that he knew about the positive test results from the patient he'd treated three days ago, every interaction he had with another person seemed fraught with peril. 

He pushed Stone away from his wheelchair so he could exit the lift, not letting him lick his hands, which he'd scrubbed nearly raw over the last week. "Do not kiss me," he said to Sherlock, as he wheeled himself into the flat. "Do not try to kiss me."

"I wasn't—why not? We've already—"

"I know, I know. Sorry. Just. I'm a little...." He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, the full weight of what was happening finally hitting him. Quarantine. Two weeks, he and Sherlock, to see if they were going to develop any symptoms. No leaving the flat, no visitors in the building, no more shifts at the clinic, right when his skill as a doctor was needed more than ever. 

He opened his eyes again. Stone was sitting next to him, tail frantically flopping against the floor, and Sherlock was still standing in front of him, literally wringing his hands. 

"Sherlock," John told him. "It has been a very, very long day and I need to get out of this chair and stretch out and you're blocking my path to the sofa."

"Sorry, sorry," Sherlock said, and stepped out of the way, calling Stone to his side. 

The apology, coupled with Sherlock's hesitant posture, told John everything he needed to know about his state of mind. Scared. Of course. John was scared, too, though he knew health-wise they were both probably going to be fine. But it was not easy to escape the feeling of dread that had slowly been building across the whole world and had now found a home here in their flat. 

He sighed and turned to toss his work bag into the corner of the room, next to a pile of Sherlock's books and journals that had migrated off an overflowing shelf. He should probably disinfect the bag, or maybe he could just leave it there for the next two weeks and let any potential germs die off on their own. Oh God, this was a nightmare. He could spend the next two weeks cleaning the entire flat but he still wouldn't be able to do anything about the potential infections he might have already spread. In the last three days he'd been to work, home, Speedy's, the corner shop to buy newspapers every morning, Scotland Yard on Tuesday, and to top it all off he'd spent yesterday evening in Mrs. Hudson's flat, trying to revive her ancient microwave because she didn't like the control panels on any of the new models. Mrs. Hudson. He'd exposed her. She was 81 years old. He was never going to be able to live with himself if something happened to her.

He must have spent too long staring blankly at the corner where he'd thrown his bag, because the next thing he knew he felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder. 

"John?" Sherlock said.

John fought off the urge to push his hand away. It was okay if they touched; they had been touching much more intimately in the days since he'd been exposed. He put his own hand over Sherlock's and looked up at him. "I—" he began, then stopped. _I may have killed Mrs. Hudson._ That statement would not improve the current situation. He let go of Sherlock's hand and rubbed at his face, which he'd been trying to avoid doing for a week now. "I need to get out of this chair," he repeated. 

He took off his shoes, then crossed the room and pushed the coffee table out of the way so he could swing himself out of the chair and settle on the sofa, legs stretched out across the cushions. Stone lost interest in him, retreating to the bedroom as he presumably realised that John was not about to take him outside for a walk right now. Sherlock lingered nearby, hovering uncertainly on the other side of the coffee table until John raised his eyebrows and then nodded at the empty cushion on the far end of the sofa. "You can join me if you like." 

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes flicked to meet John's, but he didn't move. "What if...do you think we have enough medicine in the flat? In case you get sick?"

"I'm not going to get sick."

"Right, but if you do. I know we have paracetamol but I'm not sure if we have any cough suppressants, and I don't want you to—"

"What if you get sick?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "I won't get sick. I never get sick. You—"

"Stop," John said. "Right now." He stared at Sherlock, daring him to continue. He'd already had to endure his co-workers' concern this afternoon—people who should know better, yet who still thought that he was somehow more prone to complications than they were, simply because of his injury. He'd ended up coughing on purpose—into his elbow, of course—just to demonstrate that he was able to clear his lungs effectively and wasn't any more likely to develop pneumonia than any other 48-year-old. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "You do get more colds than I do."

"Because I'm around people more. Just...let's not talk about this, okay? Any of this. I just want to sit here and not think for a little while and then I want to have a bath or a shower and possibly burn all the clothes I've worn this week. Either sit down with me or go do something else."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then nodded. He pushed the coffee table even further away from the sofa before sitting down at the end. "I could rub your feet, if you want. You've been working more than usual this week and wearing the same shoes every day."

"Yeah, go ahead." John exhaled, then wriggled himself down further so Sherlock could pick up his feet and put them on his lap. It had been long enough that it no longer felt surreal to see Sherlock touching and moving his legs and feet without being able to feel the movement. "Go ahead and take my socks off, I know you want to." John leaned back against the sofa's armrest and let himself smile a bit as he watched Sherlock gingerly pull off his socks for him.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, making a face as he dropped each one on the ground. "It's just—"

"Yes, I know your feelings on socks." 

A small smile played at Sherlock's lips, and John counted it as a win—he'd successfully distracted him from worrying for a least a little while. John wasn't especially concerned about keeping his toe muscles limber, but if it gave Sherlock something to do and let John have a chance to decompress, he wasn't going to stop it. Except after only a minute or two, Sherlock began to talk again. 

"Since you called and told me you were coming home and we'd need to be quarantined, I've been making plans for what we need to do. Stone is our biggest issue, of course. He won't get sick, but he needs to be taken outside twice a day at least. Do we risk going out, and try not to touch anything or breathe on anyone? There are fewer people on the streets now, but it's still London, and I've seen children and their parents going into the park all day." 

"Yeah, that is a good question." John felt the tension he'd been carrying all day return to his shoulders. "Maybe—"

"I started to draw up a spreadsheet, listing people who would be willing to take him for a walk for us. So far, I have several of the staff at Speedy's, that girl at the coffee shop who flirts with you every Saturday, and some people from the homeless network who could use a few extra pounds sent their way. But would we need to disinfect Stone before sending him out with somebody else? He can't carry the virus himself, but it could still be on his lead, or even in his fur, and who can resist petting him? He hates baths, so how could we effectively disinfect him before handing him over to someone else twice a day?"

"Sherlock—" 

"Then I thought, perhaps Greg and Molly would be willing to take him for the two weeks—they like him, but I don't know if their cats would appreciate it. Though I doubt Stone would know enough to chase a cat. He would also love it if we sent him to the country and he got to spend the time at Mummy and Daddy's, but again, how do we be sure he's not carrying germs to them? I don't want my dog to accidentally kill my parents, John."

"He won't—you're not—" John pursed his lips. Considering that he'd been having very similar thoughts about Mrs. Hudson a few minutes ago, he wasn't sure what to say to ease Sherlock's mind.

"Perhaps our best option is to order some piddle pads—"

"Piddle pads?"

Sherlock looked up from John's feet and met his eyes. "Yes. Absorbent training papers, so he can relieve himself indoors."

"Yeah, I knew what you meant. It's just...." He sighed. What to do with Stone was an issue they'd need to resolve, but he just wanted a few minutes of peace first. "Could we talk about something else right now? Anything else? A case? Do you have a good case?"

"No, and I'm not allowed to leave the flat to investigate even if a something good does pop up." Sherlock scowled. "We're going to drive each other crazy for the next two weeks, aren't we?"

Probably. "No. We—we like each other well enough. We just need to find ways to relieve our boredom without spending our time obsessing over whether we're going to get sick or not."

"What—how? I'm not playing board games with you."

"No, agreed on that point. We—I mean, there are certainly other things we can play at, though."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to distract me by offering me an orgasm, like you did during the Moriarty case?"

"I wasn't—I didn't mean right now. Just that we'd have plenty of time for that in the next two weeks."

"Oh. Okay." Sherlock turned his attention back to John's feet.

"Unless.... Do you want me to distract you with an orgasm right now?"

"No. It's okay. I know you're probably tired and want to have a shower."

"Yes."

"Okay then."

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock's eyes flicked sideways towards him, his head still facing forward.

"Would you like to have an orgasm now?"

Sherlock's lips thinned. "I didn't, until you mentioned it. Now...." He gave a little shrug, still moving his thumbs in circles across the arches of John's feet.

John laughed, then sat up all the way, pulling his whole body back until his feet dropped off Sherlock's lap and he was sitting up straight against the armrest. 

Sherlock's right hand went to his flies briefly before he pulled it back, folding his hands together at his waist.

"It's all right," John said. "I'm happy to oblige. Now, put your hand back where it was and give yourself a good stroke, right through your trousers."

Sherlock glanced at him, then did as John suggested, fingers sliding over the bulge that had appeared in his lap.

"Good." John settled back more comfortably against the sofa arm, thinking about what he wanted to do. He wasn't particularly in the mood for sex himself, but he did want Sherlock to enjoy himself. Best to be direct, and let Sherlock know that he was in charge this time. "Now, if you want to do this, you need to do exactly what I tell you to do."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. Unzip yourself now."

Sherlock's fingers moved even as his mouth opened to object, and John cut him off. "The button, too. There's no one who knows what you want better than I do, so you will listen to me and do as I say."

Sherlock opened his trousers and pulled himself free of his pants, then looked over at John again, eyebrows raised.

John let slide the fact that he hadn't instructed him to pull his cock out. He felt the tension through his back and arms ease again, as he took in the sight of Sherlock, long fingers wrapped around his mostly-soft cock, patiently waiting. "Very nice start," he said. "Now imagine I'm kneeling on the floor in front of you." He hoped Sherlock didn't think too hard about the logistics of him kneeling—it was a position he could technically achieve, but he would spend most of his time trying to keep himself balanced, and not be able to use his arms and hands for anything else. 

Sherlock didn't comment, but spread his legs a little further apart and slid his hips forward, which meant John was doing a good job of keeping him distracted so far. 

"That's it," John said. "Perfect. My head is between your knees. Now I'm leaning forward, putting my mouth against your cock. My lips are still closed, though. I'm dragging them along your cock, breathing on the head now. You can feel the tiniest bit of my five o'clock shadow, can't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, and tightened his fist around himself. 

"You can't help yourself, now. You start begging. You—"

"Please, John, please." John hadn't expected Sherlock to start playing the role so quickly, but he did. "I need to be in your mouth. Open up." Sherlock put his left hand out as if trying to coax John's jaw open.

"Okay, yes." John opened his mouth wide for a moment, then realised he couldn't mime sucking Sherlock off and continue talking at the same time. "There you go. I'm pulling you between my lips, running my tongue over the tip of your cock. Do you feel that?"

"Mm-hmmm." Sherlock slid his right hand up and down his cock, which had hardened and grown. He moved the fingers of his left hand in the air as if combing them through John's hair. 

"I'm sucking, but lightly. Teasing you. One of my hands is at the base of your cock, stopping you from thrusting all the way into my mouth."

"Where's your other hand?" Sherlock's voice was not much above a whisper, as if he didn't have enough air to speak. 

"My other hand is moving across your hip, then down to your balls, cradling them. You're sitting up too straight so I can't go any lower, but I—"

"Ah, no," Sherlock moaned, and slouched down further on the sofa, sliding his hips out so he was balanced on the edge of the cushion. "There, you've got room now."

"Yes, now I can touch you lower. I let your cock slide out of my mouth for a second and shove my fingers in instead, getting them as wet as a I can, then I put my hand down again, and slide the tip of one finger—"

"I'm wearing a plug," Sherlock interrupted. "I've been waiting for you all day." He dropped his left hand down to where John couldn't clearly see it, and for a moment John half-expected him to produce an actual anal plug that he had been wearing all day.

When he didn't, John went on. "Okay, yeah. A plug. I could take it out, or I could leave it in and just tease you more with it, tipping it up so it rubs on your prostate while your cock is back in my mouth. I'm sucking harder now, swallowing you down and moving that plug, pulling it out just a bit, then back in, same rhythm as my mouth. Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. John, yes, I feel it. Are you—are you touching yourself, too?"

"Do you want me to be?"

"God, yes."

"Okay, then I'm unzipping my trousers right now. Slipping my hand into my pants." He looked down at himself and briefly considered acting his words out in reality, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. He wasn't hard yet, and wouldn't get that way just by talking and watching Sherlock. He could stroke his way to his own orgasm, of course, but that would take longer than Sherlock was likely to last, if the flush of red on his face and the way he was starting to move less smoothly were any indication. "I've got myself in my hand, and my mouth's still on your cock, and I'm using my tongue, and you're pulling my hair and it's making me hard and—"

"You, oh. John. I want more. More, I want to come in your mouth. Will you let me? John."

"Yes, yes, of course," John said, registering how Sherlock was noticeably more polite when fantasising out loud than he tended to be when they were actually in bed together. "You can do anything you want."

"Yes, yes, in your mouth. Don't want to get it all over the rug. John." Sherlock was pumping himself furiously now, feet braced against the floor, raising himself up slightly from the sofa cushion with each stroke. 

John took a deep breath and raised a hand to his own chest, slipping his thumb and forefinger between two buttons of his shirt placket so he could finger his nipple ring through the thin fabric of his vest. He didn't say anything else, and didn't need to; he was pretty sure Sherlock had passed the point of being able to process language anyway. John leaned back and tugged at his ring and watched Sherlock's face as it flushed even darker and his mouth fell open, his breaths gasping. 

"John, John! Mm, your mouth. I'm coming, coming down your throat. John!" Sherlock leaned forward as his orgasm hit, sending shudders through his body that rocked the whole sofa. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to cup himself with both hands, and indeed spare the rug from being spattered and stained. 

John let his eyes blink shut and a moan escape as he gave his nipple ring a final tug and twist, sending a smaller but still very welcome surge of pleasure through his body. 

When he opened his eyes again Sherlock was wiping his hands clean with a handkerchief—that was going to have to go. They might not need to isolate from each other but they should still try to maintain as clean an environment as possible, which meant disposable tissues only. Oh, God. This was still going to be a nightmare, regardless of how many orgasms they managed to have.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and John knew he must have let his thoughts show on his face. "Do you want me to go run a bath? We could get in together, wash each other's backs."

"Not yet." John tried to push away all the worries that were returning. "Not yet. Just come here for a moment. Come here." He held his arms out and caught Sherlock as he threw himself onto John's lap. John buried his face in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock nuzzled at John's neck, and somehow, John knew that given the circumstances of the world today, the two of them could not be in any better position than they were right now, here in the flat with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my other [Hazards of Love fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677148), and the whole [Isolated Johnlock Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/IsolatedJohnlockCollection) on AO3.
> 
> If you haven't read [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), I'd love it if you gave it a chance! Angsty hurt/comfort punctuated by a few episodes of explicit sex, woo-hoo! The [sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530389/chapters/38722940) even has some plot, I think.
> 
> Technically there is another fic in the Breakable universe, but I don't have it listed as part of the series because it was written for a prompt and is not something I think really would/did happen with these characters. BUT it was a lot of fun and very difficult to write, so if you're very adventurous, let me recommend [Alone Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675149), which, if it actually happened, would take place about 18 months after the end of Side Effects.


End file.
